


His Own Hell

by Kantayra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-14
Updated: 2006-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Every man is his own hell.” – Henry Louis Mencken.</i> For almost as long as John has been hunting the Demon, the Demon has been hunting him. And the only thing the two of them share is their obsession with each other...</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Own Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally inspired by the lovely jyuu_chan who was listing off silly SPN OTPs one night, one of which was 'John/Demon'. I instantly went: "OMG! That totally fits in with the archenemies fucking kink!" and thus this fic was born. Thanks to marishna who was pretty much my source for SPN canon and trivia in this fic; anything I got wrong is my own fault, and I clearly should've asked her before posting. :P Thanks to txtequilanights for the hand-holding and plotting help in this one. And, finally, thanks most of all to strippedpink for beta'ing this. For my first SPN fic, this one was quite an undertaking. :P

“You’re persistent for a mortal, I’ll grant you that.”

John’s head shot up, and he mentally shook himself for letting his guard slip. It was a long, dull wait for the spirit who’d been stalking this field and severing the fingers of all who crossed by night. A pretty standard hunt, if any hunt could be called standard. But, in the old days, he would _never_ have let himself slip like this.

“In the end, though, that’s all you are: mortal. It seems that old age is already winning my battle for me.”

John looked up and met the eyes of the young girl. Of course, they weren’t a girl’s eyes. Orange flames, like the fires of Hell themselves were burning up the girl’s soul from within. And the worst thing about it all was that the Demon was right; he was slipping more and more as he got older. Endless nights spent trying to find a way to murder the son of a bitch were making him exhausted, sloppy, careless.

“I’ll fucking blow your brains out.” The rifle held only rock-salt, of course. But John procured the .45 he kept in his belt for just such an emergency and clicked off the safety.

The Demon tilted its head, strawberry-sweet curls bouncing as it did so. It looked so obscenely _harmless_ wrapped up in blue taffeta and lace, apple-red cheeks and button-nose. “You would, if you thought it would hurt _me_. But you wouldn’t blow Annalee Harper’s brains out,” it corrected him, offering up a little curtsey.

“Don’t try me.” John’s eyes narrowed, and he cocked the trigger. “I’d be doing that girl a favor, saving her from having to live with _you_.”

The Demon’s head tilted the other way, unholy fiery eyes assessing him with an evil intelligence that should never have appeared on a face that young and sweet. “You’re bluffing,” it concluded.

“Oh, yeah?” John let out a broken laugh, edges ragged and rough, and aimed for the center of the bastard’s forehead.

The Demon’s eyes met his for one endless, harrowing moment. And whatever it saw in John’s eyes gave it pause. Not fear or respect or even doubt. More like…curiosity. Like John was a pet who had just done an unusual and particularly amusing trick.

And then the illusion of personality was gone again, and it simply _was_. Fire and cold, inhuman and so impossibly wicked that John had to fight the impulse to shiver. “It doesn’t matter,” it shrugged disinterestedly, turning its back on him. “Oh, and your geist is right behind you.”

John spun around just in time to avoid the spirit _du jour_ ’s cleaver. By the time he’d finally iced it, he was alone, with nothing but the night wind and shadows as his company.

***

Dean sure was taking his sweet time over at the Shelby County Clerk’s office. Of course, given the way that cute little secretary had looked at him, John probably should’ve figured he’d be coasting alone tonight. He had faith that his son, all fun aside, would be ready bright and early tomorrow morning with all the information on Sandy Culver’s property history that they could ever need.

It did mean that he had to find something to do to pass the evening, however.

More and more these days that meant that he spent his time pouring over his notes on the Demon. He’d picked up another batch of autopsies from house fires the last time he and Dean had driven through St. Louis, but hadn’t had much time to go over them when Dean wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

Rick’s Bar on the corner served a decent burger and had dark booths in the back just perfect for a long night of work. Both were things John was very grateful for as he nursed his Bud and separated the reports into ‘no’ and ‘maybe’ piles. A definite pattern was forming: electrical disturbances, accident reports, and…

“Man, I’d hate to have your job.”

John looked up, startled out of his work, to realize that one of the guys who had just come in – regulars, he could only assume – was giving him a curious look as he slid coins into the old Juke Box next to John’s booth.

“Burning the midnight oil on a Friday?” He shook his head and made his song choice. The machine shuddered, lit up, and came slowly to life.

John offered him an affirmative grunt.

“You’re not from around here.” John paid closer attention and saw a guy about his age, bearded, overweight, wearing a feed-cap, looking just like the denizens of a thousand bars all across the Midwest. “What brings you to town?” It wasn’t an unfriendly question, though. Just vaguely interested.

John managed a grin and turned away from the files before him. “That horrible job of mine,” John retorted, and won himself a chuckle.

“Jake,” the other man nodded, taking the unspoken invitation and sitting down just as the waitress arrived with his beer.

“John,” John replied in kind.

“You in insurance?” Jake guessed, eyeing the photos of the burned out remains of the Hauser home.

“Something like that,” John agreed, nursing his beer. “You?”

“I own the hardware store down the block. Stick my kid in charge every weekend and come over here.”

John chuckled. “Half the fun is giving your kids the dirty work.”

“You got kids?”

John nodded around a swallow of beer and held up two fingers.

“In the family business too?”

“Older boy, yup. Younger’s off in college.”

“Must be hard traveling for work with a family,” Jake commented. Behind him, the Juke Box shook and finally started playing, a pounding drum rhythm sounding throughout the bar.

John shrugged. “I make do.” And then he caught a phrase that he recognized, and he suddenly realized what the song was. A sinking sensation started deep in his stomach, and before he could react, ‘Jake’ had moved lightning-quick, catching John’s wrists and forcing them firmly onto the tabletop. John twisted and struggled, but the Demon might as well have been made of steel for all the good it did him.

“You think I won’t start yelling for help?” John spat.

“You think I won’t snap the neck of Every. Last. Human. Who comes when you call?” the Demon retorted, infernos flaring up in the depths of its eyes.

John’s lip twisted into a sneer. “What do you want?”

“Maybe I just want to feel how easily your bones snap,” the Demon suggested pleasantly, tightening its grip.

John heard some cracking and straining, but nothing broke. “And you’re a sick bastard, so you’re dragging it out as long as possible? How…predictable.”

The Demon grinned at that. “I could make you beg first. I haven’t tried that in a few decades. It might be fun.”

“Really?” John retorted coolly. “’Cause I’d think that would lose its attraction after the first hundred or so times.”

The Demon gave him a quizzical look. “You’re not going to lecture me on how you’ll never beg?” it asked, sounding almost disappointed.

“What is this, a bad action movie?” John snorted with annoyance. “We both know perfectly well that you’ve got more than enough experience with torture to make me beg all you want.”

A slow, satisfied smile curved the Demon’s lips. “We do,” it agreed.

“So, are you just going to sit there making vague threats, or did you have a reason for bothering me?” John demanded, sounding a lot more sure of himself than he felt.

“Bravado,” the Demon smirked. “You’re not the first, you know. Not even close. You’re quite a regular phenomenon, really.”

John’s brow furrowed at that.

“The last one was at the end of the nineteenth century. Edward Rawlings. I’d killed his parents, his sister. He was very young, but _very_ vengeful.” It sighed. “Before that was Xi Zhao. And, before her, Berg von Helck. And so on, and so on. They all wanted me just as dead as you do.”

“Yeah, well, the difference is…” John leaned in conspiratorially. “ _I’m_ going to be the one who finally kills you.” He winked. “Just so you know.”

The Demon laughed at that, a rich, throaty laugh that felt so chillingly _genuine_. “You certainly have the best sense of humor thus far,” it smiled at him through slitted eyes.

“I try my best,” John retorted dryly.

The Demon smiled in an almost friendly manner. “You could always quit while you’re ahead, you know. I wouldn’t take it… _personally_.” And the damned (literally) thing actually had the nerve to flutter its eyelashes at him.

“Yeah, because after a lifetime of hunting your evil ass down, I was thinking I’d just give up.”

“Of course,” the Demon returned with affable sarcasm. “Because you have such a life outside of me. One boy’s already run off, and it’s only a matter of time before the other grows tired of your obsession.” A pregnant pause. “Or meets his maker.”

“Don’t you _dare_ —!” John hissed.

The Demon cut him off with a crushing squeeze to his wrists that left John gasping in agony. “They’re not important. They’ve never been important, have they, John?” Its voice was soothing and intimate, like this was a little in-joke that only the two of them shared. “It’s always just been the two us to you, and it will end that way.” The Demon stood slowly, fingers trailing around John’s wrists in a silky-smooth caress until it finally let go.

John dove for his gun, watching the Demon’s jean-clad back as it walked quickly, precisely, in a far more confident manner than any hardware store owner, out of the bar. His wrists still tingled from the pressure that had been put on them, and it took him a while to fumble the gun into his hands.

By the time he did, the Demon was gone and the Juke Box was just hitting the final strains of ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’

***

The first time John had seen Mary, she had taken his breath away. It had been autumn, and the leaves had been falling, and she’d been smiling and laughing with her friends, all bundled up in her jacket, hands buried deep in her pockets. He’d just sat there, mesmerized, and then the wind had taken her scarf away, and he’d caught it, and it had been love at first sight.

Of course, that hadn’t been _her_ version of things. Mary had insisted that John had pretty much hated her that day. There had been that whole incident with her dog, and then the Coke that had spilled all over his jeans. He knew memory could play funny tricks on you, but he liked the way he remembered that day, so he didn’t try to analyze the accuracy of his memories too much.

It was a day like that today. Cool, crisp, with the first nip of winter in the air.

And the woman who’d just cast him a sidelong smile across the park could’ve been Mary’s sister, if John hadn’t known better. Her long blonde hair whipped about her face, tangled and perfectly imperfect. Hands in black leather gloves rested on the railing as she gazed out over the pond at the flock of geese that were passing through.

There was so much right about the vision before him, and so much wrong too. Tan trench-coat and high boots, sleek and professional, rather than the casual wear Mary had worn that day. Nose a little too sharp at the tip, cheekbones higher, eyes a darker blue. This woman was so similar, yet so different. She looked almost like an ideal of Mary’s beauty, rather than the actual woman John had known and loved simply because she _wasn’t_ an ideal to him but a real person.

He didn’t know whether to be tempted or repulsed, but he started walking toward that soft smile anyway.

“You look lost,” came a gentle, sultry voice when he finally reached the woman.

He shrugged and looked out over the lake. “Aren’t we all?”

Her smile widened, displaying even, white teeth. “Hey, now. You can’t just leave off after an intriguing statement like _that_.”

“I met my wife here,” John shrugged. “Twenty-five years ago, to this day.”

“Congratulations.” The smile turned a shade falser. “I should leave you to celebrate, then…”

John glanced down at his hands, the glint off his wedding ring shining in the afternoon sunlight. “My wife’s dead,” he replied simply. “Has been for over twenty years now.”

“Oh…” An uncomfortable pause. “I’m sorry.”

Another shrug, and this time John looked out as far as he could see, watching the countryside roll away in the distance.

“Listen.” A cough interrupted his silent musings. “This probably isn’t a good time, but…maybe you don’t want to be alone today? We could get coffee, or…?” A warm hand came to rest on his arm.

John seriously considered it for one moment. It was so easy to substitute and forget just for a few hours. And it was so much harder to live with himself afterwards…

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

The hand tightened on his arm slightly. “Are you sure? I’m offering you another chance at what was taken from you.”

And something about that sentence was just _wrong_. John tensed immediately and pulled away from the woman’s touch. “I’m not interested,” he insisted, perhaps a bit too coldly.

The woman let out an annoyed hiss. “You really are hopelessly stubborn, John,” she informed him.

John gulped because, of course, he’d never told this woman his name. The slip had clearly been intentional. Almost instantly, a devilish glint entered its eyes, even though they remained clear and blue. “Stay the Hell away from me.” John took two shaky steps back.

The Demon just shook its head. “And I searched so long for a host that would match your… _requirements_ ,” it taunted him lightly.

“You twisted son of a bitch,” John hissed. He didn’t have his gun with him this time. And, while it was a pretty empty threat anyway – just an inconvenience for the Demon, really – it could always buy him a few seconds. More times than he could count, ‘a few seconds’ had been the difference between life and death.

The Demon slunk towards him, a seductive walk of a thousand women throughout the ages. Mary had _never_ walked like that; her appeal had been a natural sort of beauty and grace. “I’m offering compensation,” it informed him calmly, business-like. “It’s more than I ever gave any of the others.”

“How _dare_ you try to look anything like her!” John’s hands were clenched into fists, and he knew he should probably run, but the _rage_ inside him at this moment was just… This monster dared to _defile_ Mary’s memory!

The Demon looked almost put out. “I hardly see how it makes any difference,” it all but growled, sounding alien and completely out of place in the sunny autumn afternoon.

“Yeah, no fucking kidding.” John glared, looking for his escape route. The path to their right looked pretty clear, no new bodies for it to hop into. Of course, that meant getting past it in the first place… “You don’t get _any_ of it. That’s why you’re a fucking bastard from Hell.”

It frowned at that, like John had said something deeply interesting. “Explain.”

“Hell, no.” John ducked right; the Demon cut him off, looking for all the world like a grade-school bully trapping its victim on the playground. The image was patently ridiculous, given the waiflike build of the Demon’s current host, but John wasn’t stupid enough to let it get close enough to use its strength against him. “Why should I care what you think?”

“You’re not a fan of the philosophy ‘know thy enemy,’ then?” it inquired, looking so much like Mary right then that it _hurt_ John just to watch the thing.

“Is that why you’ve been following me?” John demanded instead. “Popping up all over the place? Christ, it’d be easier just to kill me and be done with it.”

The Demon blinked at the word ‘Christ’ but didn’t seem overly put out by it. “Who says I want you dead?” it countered. “Who says I ever wanted anyone dead?”

“Don’t make me laugh.” John let out a giddy little bark that he couldn’t repress. Because, really, it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“Oh, John.” The Demon shook its head. “You’re _far_ too interesting to just murder. It’s been so very long since anyone worthy has entered the game…”

“‘Game’?” John repeated incredulously. “Is that all this is to you, you psychotic freak?”

“Temper, temper,” it chided lightly, intimately, the way Mary used to sometimes when he’d let the dishes go too long or stayed too late at work. It was, without a doubt, the creepiest thing he’d ever seen. And he’d seen a Hell of a lot of creepy things in his lifetime. “And perhaps ‘game’ isn’t the right word. How does… _obsession_ work for you?”

“Jesus Christ…” John breathed, backing up.

“Oh, it was just you at first, John,” the Demon conceded. “But it’s been such a long time since any one human has held my interest for so long. I’d missed it. I want to feel that again.” It licked its lips. “I want to watch you _break_ …”

“And I want to watch you dead. Imagine that. We just have _so_ much in common.”

John’s sarcasm was met with a brilliant smile. “ _Exactly_ ,” it all but purred. Long, gloved fingers slid up his arm in a caress this time, but clearly recalling the pain the Demon had caused him back in Texas. “It’s very rare for a mere mortal to hold my… _attention_ so completely. You should be flattered.”

He snorted derisively. “I prefer to be disgusted.” He pulled away. He’d half expected that the Demon wouldn’t let him go, but it did, an enigmatic little curve on its lips.

“Your choice, of course,” it offered indulgently, because they both knew that it had the power to crush him beneath the heel of its boot, if it wanted to.

“Damn you,” he hissed and stalked away.

“Too late for that,” it called after him. “But maybe not for you…”

He all but ran for his truck and the reassurance of cold iron and buckshot.

***

“You’re not that hard to find, you know.”

John’s eyes shot up to the pimply teen behind the gas station register. Only ten seconds ago, the kid had been reciting off John’s total, voice squeaky and only half broken into adulthood. Now the boy’s eyes glinted with hellfire.

“Every time there’s a psychic disturbance…” It shrugged. “One of your kind shows up. Usually you. I’ve gotten very good at guessing which hunts you’ll take.” It grinned at him with unholy glee.

John just glared and slapped his credit card down on the table.

The Demon snorted. “ _Please_ , like I don’t know that’s fake…”

John’s lips fought the urge to twitch into a smile, and he threw a few bills onto the counter instead. “Keep the change. And leave that poor kid alone.” And was out the door with a jingle of the bell.

***

“ _Another_ burger?” The waitress shook her head and, before John’s very eyes, her lips quirked into that unfortunately familiar wicked grin. “What would Mary think? Really, John, you’re no good to me if a heart attack gets you before I get the chance.”

John gritted his teeth and refused to respond.

“More coffee?” The Demon all but _giggled_ , a sight that looked quite inappropriate on the thirty-something pepper-pot of a woman it was inhabiting.

John stood up without a word and headed for the door.

“Oh, come on! The coffee’s not _that_ bad!”

And _that_ wasn’t even worthy of a response. Except the door slamming behind him.

***

“You’re too tense, you know.” Thick, meaty fingers came to rest on John’s shoulders, kneading the muscles there in a thoroughly inappropriate manner.

John half leapt from his seat in time to see the last of the black smoke vanish inside Detective Collins’ mouth. The Demon sure wasn’t taking its time getting situated anymore. “What, is Hell so boring these days that you have nothing better to do than stalk me?”

“Contrary to whatever you might believe, you’re actually one of the most intriguing beings on the planet right now,” the Demon retorted, resting its overweight frame on the corner of the desk in exactly the same manner that Collins had when he’d been interrogating John about the arson at the old Friedmont House. Collins just hadn’t been the kind of guy who would understand the old ‘poltergeist’ explanation. John figured the Demon would buy his story, but was even less likely to let him go than Collins was. “And, besides,” it offered lightly, “you should be happy you’re keeping me occupied and away from my… _other_ interests on this plane.”

“Fuck you,” John hissed. The implication there was all too clear: the Demon’s obsession with the children, with _Sammy_.

The Demon gave him a lopsided shrug that didn’t really fit with its new body, like it was still adjusting to wearing Collins’ skin. “I did make that offer back in Kansas…”

“Real cute,” John retorted, trying not to let it get to him. Because, really, this was the worst of all possible situations: the Demon had all the power, both human and the supernatural, to control him right now. “Now, why don’t you tell me what the Hell it is you want?”

It smiled at him, a slight quirk of lips beneath its overly-bushy mustache. The gold of its eyes glinted under the interrogation lights. “I thought that would be obvious, John,” it tisked lightly.

John wasn’t amused. “Enlighten me.”

“Why,” it countered amicably, trying to pull the same Good Cop shtick that Collins had and not being much more successful, “your _soul_ , of course.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at _that_ cliché. “Yeah,” he said between tears at how hard he was laughing, “not gonna happen.”

The Demon just smiled indulgently. “I’ll give you time to think over my offer,” it insisted patiently. And then, in a scream of black mist, it vanished into the vent.

Detective Collins blinked at where he now sat across the room from where he’d left off. His eyes widened at John for a moment as he tried to process what had happened. John watched the denial slowly slip into his face as rational explanations fought to assert themselves and preserve Collins’ sanity. Eventually, it seemed, they did.

Although Collins sure rushed to let John go after that.

John wondered if he should thank the Demon.

The answer was obviously ‘no.’

***

The succubus hissed, forked tongue slipping past her fangs as she flew back off of the bed, giant leathery wings flapping frenetically against the overly-cramped walls.

John ducked the falling plaster where the monster’s wings had cracked the wall wide open, and fired. The sound of the shot rang painfully through his ears, only a second too late – after the succubus had already crashed through the window, leaving sharp shards covered with oily blue blood in her wake.

“You okay?” John shouted to the would-be victim, who managed to blink and nod in shock before John was racing for the back door, shotgun in hand, chasing the thing through the back yard.

The fall through the glass had apparently wounded her right wing, and she was stumbling across the lawn on cloven feet, clutching at her side. John finally caught her three lawns over, when abruptly the succubus spun on him and lashed out with razor-sharp talons.

The initial blow was enough to knock the gun from John’s hand, and he could feel the rivulets of blood soaking through his torn shirt and jacket.

He dodged the second attack and managed to trip the succubus up, bringing her down to the ground hard. It only bought him a few seconds, and he scrambled on hands and knees over to his shotgun.

Just out of arm’s reach of his goal, he felt talons hard as steel close around his ankle. He tried to kick back, but this thing was fucking _strong_ , and he was whipped back to face furious, glowing-blue eyes as the succubus hissed and set her sights on _him_ for her nightly prey.

Razor-sharp fangs moved in closer as whip-chord muscles pulled John into alignment for the kill, and…

Then, the succubus stopped.

John blinked in surprise when abruptly the creature screamed, her head thrashing back and forth. And then just as suddenly she stopped, head thrown forward, stringy blue-black hair covering her face. John fought the ridiculous impulse to ask whether she was okay.

When she looked up at him again though, slowly, menacingly, he figured out what the problem was all too quickly. Eyes that had been glowing an ethereal blue only seconds before were now fiery orange.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” John snapped with irrational irritation. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

The Demon let out a throaty laugh which, of course, came out as a glass-shattering wail from the succubus’ lips. “Oh, I will so enjoy having you,” it flicked its forked tongue out against John’s cheek.

He tried not to recoil too visibly. He didn’t want to give it the satisfaction. “I guess being millennia old and all, you haven’t been keeping up with the times…”

The Demon frowned, an expression that looked quite comical on the succubus’ plastic-smooth face. “How do you mean?”

“You must’ve missed all those ‘no means no’ slogans,” he spat.

A bemused smile curved the succubus’ lips. “You know,” it commented thoughtfully, “this really is the ideal form in which to take what I want…”

“Succubae suck souls now?” John retorted skeptically.

A taloned hand squeezed his ass in response, causing John to let out an undignified yelp.

“It’s really not the worst way to die, John,” the Demon informed him coyly, almost sweetly.

John gulped. “There’s just one problem,” he retorted shakily.

“Oh?” The succubus’ hairline rose an inch, probably the closest it could get to raising its eyebrows given that, y’know, the succubus didn’t have any.

“I always have a back-up plan,” John informed it cheekily. With a flick of his wrist, he unsheathed the pure-copper knife and plunged it _hard_ into the succubus’ stomach.

The Demon gasped, eyes wide, as the body it inhabited started to dissolve from within.

“Nice try, though,” John offered with a grin, twisting the knife and watching the succubus fall to the ground in death-throes.

Even the sight of the Demon’s non-corporeal form fleeing the corpse in a cloud of black smoke didn’t put a damper on his mood. Damn, that had felt _good_ …

***

“Need a lift?”

John was on the gravel shoulder of the road, limping at where that hellhound had sunk its teeth into his leg, and was about to collapse when the Volkswagen Bug pulled over and the woman behind the wheel made her offer. Something, though… _Something_ made him stop, turn hostile eyes in her direction, and reach for his gun.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, pressing the comforting weight of the metal into the small of his back, just in case he was wrong about this and was about to attack an innocent civilian. “You go on ahead.”

The woman – a lovely girl about Sammy’s age, with delicate, almond-shaped Japanese features and shiny black hair – gave him a sweet smile. “You sure about that, old man?”

“ _Deadly_ sure,” John grimaced.

An elegant shrug of her shoulders, and the woman drove off.

And, really, she’d never shown him Demon eyes. Maybe he was just being paranoid. But pain was far better company on the long walk back to his hotel than the Devil himself…

***

“You want me to take this one?”

John shook himself out of his reverie, realizing that he’d just been staring off into space and nodding off. He’d been growing more and more preoccupied over the last few months, and while Dean wasn’t the type to say anything, he knew that Dean had noticed. “I’m fine,” John countered and returned his attention to the half-cleaned shotgun on the table before him.

Dean shrugged and began rifling through their supplies, taking inventory. “We’re running low on holy water,” he noticed mildly.

And, for some reason, the fact that Dean _wasn’t_ pushing and asking what was wrong was what finally caused him to snap. “You know, you’re right,” he finally decided. “You take the New Orleans hunt. I need a breather anyway. I’ll drop by Pastor Jim’s and restock.”

Dean just nodded, accepting the assignment just like every other before. John didn’t know whether he should be relieved or concerned that Dean didn’t even ask. “I’ll head out after lunch. It’s a long drive.”

“Right,” John agreed, like there was nothing wrong, nothing unusual. “I’ll meet you back west. Been getting a few hits in California recently.”

Dean looked down pointedly at the mention of _that_ state, but he knew better than to rub at a sore spot.

“Jericho. Catch up when you’re done.”

Dean coughed, nodded, and double-checked his voodoo talismans. Could never be too careful down in New Orleans.

John tried not to think about smoldering orange eyes as they shared a last meal, tried not to jump or jerk away at everyone who passed them by. One thing was certain: something had to give soon. And he just hoped to God that it gave as far away from Dean as was physically possible…

***

The give came the second evening in Jericho. John’s preliminary research seemed to indicate that Constance Welch was a good old-fashioned woman in white, so he was outlining his plan of attack for tomorrow evening. The knock on his door at 1AM was unexpected, and he wondered for a moment whether Dean had called off the voodoo thing for some reason and come after him.

He frowned at the man on the other side of the peephole. Although, really, maybe ‘man’ was overly generous. The kid outside couldn’t have been much older than Sammy. He had that ‘college look’ about him. Black baggy clothing and black leather jacket and silver studs through his eyebrows. But all of that looked just polished and well-maintained enough to push him older than the ‘high school goth’ demographic.

John knew who it was before he even opened the door. “Now that’s just tacky, even for you.”

The Demon slouched against the doorframe, examining black-painted fingernails. “Sometimes I just want to stay some place homey, y’know?” It looked up at him with deep, dark, soulful eyes. They were a striking contrast to its pale skin and black spiked hair. It really was a handsome young man who hadn’t had any clue what he was getting into. John felt a twinge of sympathy.

“So?” John said when they’d stood there silently appraising each other for far too long. Something was different about this night. John could feel it in the air. And it didn’t feel like it was entirely the Demon’s doing…

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” It sunk its hands deep into the pockets of its loose-fitting black jeans. Casual and comfortable.

And, John realized, that was part of the problem. These meetings _were_ becoming casual, ritual. His wariness of the Demon’s inherent danger was fading slowly as he got to know it better. In the early days, he wouldn’t have put it past the bastard to eviscerate him on the spot. Now he was almost confident that he would come to no serious physical harm. There was something deeply wrong about that. This was the monster that had _killed Mary_ , for crying out loud! And he was just letting it into his motel room…

“I thought so,” the Demon smirked to itself as it looked around John’s room casually, at the research posted across one wall and the papers strewn about the desk and the half-eaten burger that John had put down when the knock on the door came.

“Thought so, what?” John asked curiously, still standing in the doorway and wondering what the Hell he was thinking.

“You’re much more willing to speak reasonably when I’m possessing a male,” the Demon answered casually, studying the weapons by the bedside table. “It’s a definite pattern.”

“And they say chivalry’s dead,” John retorted.

The Demon snorted. “It bothers you that much?”

“Hell, yes.”

It shrugged, a graceful movement of its shoulders. Its host may have been male, but he was a very pretty male, almost as tall as John but slim and graceful with almost a dancer’s step. And, really, that was the sort of thing that John just shouldn’t be noticing. “I see you’ve taken to the bachelor lifestyle wholeheartedly.” It scrunched up its nose at where papers and the wrappings of last night’s carry-out were all but flooding off the desk.

“You’re here to bitch about my housekeeping skills?” John snorted derisively.

“No.” It shrugged off its leather jacket and dropped it casually into the chair beside the bed. Beneath, it was wearing a tight, frayed, black t-shirt. “I’m here to ask if you’ve reconsidered my offer.”

“Let’s see,” John pretended to think about it. “My soul, in exchange for an eternity of torment.” He shook his head. “Nah. I think I’ll pass.”

The Demon snorted and hopped up to sit on the edge of the table. “I’m offering far more than ‘an eternity of torment’,” it insisted.

“Oh, of course.” John rolled his eyes. “There’s your charming company, as well.”

It tisked lightly. “So disparaging toward the only thing you’ll ever know…”

“Yeah, yeah, I have no life. I’ve heard this all before.” John shut a few books strategically. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Then perhaps I should be more succinct.” It stood abruptly and was over to John in the blink of an eye, its fingers fisting in his shirt, the gilded lights of its eyes only inches away. “Without me, old man, you have _nothing_. You’ve thrown away your life, your family. You _need_ me, as much as it repulses you to admit it. And I’ve decided that I _will_ have you, one way or another.” Its lip curled into an angry sneer. “Are we perfectly clear now?”

“Perfectly,” John sneered right back.

“Good, then.” And the Demon caught John’s face between its palms and kissed him, _hard_.

Shock and horror held John in place for moment, and then he backhanded the bastard across the room. And, really, it was a totally instinctual reaction because logically he knew that that shouldn’t have _worked_ , not against something as strong as a demon, let alone _this_ demon.

It looked up at him from where it had fallen to the floor, sprawled back against the side of the bed, and laughed. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Its fingers rubbed at the corner of its lips, where John’s blow had landed.

John was on it again in an instant, fists pounding into flesh, uncontrollable _rage_ burning him up from within. Yellow, gleeful eyes danced across his vision, as he did his best to pulverize the thing until there was nothing left. If he’d taken time to think about it, it really didn’t make any sense that he was getting away with this, not when the Demon was so much stronger. But, for whatever reason, it just lay there and took _everything_ John had with benign humor.

Finally, John fell back with a shaking breath.

The Demon sat up and cracked its neck, looking none the worse for wear for all John’s beating. As unflappable as a punching bag, and a Hell of a lot more therapeutic, if frustrating. “Are you done now?” it inquired curiously.

John panted, felt his hands shake, his knuckles bloody. “I haven’t even started,” he hissed angrily.

“I was hoping you would say that,” it purred seductively. And it kissed him again, violently, and this time he must’ve lost his mind, because he was kissing it back.

It wasn’t that different from fighting, really. Teeth gnashed at each other angrily, and fingers ripped at flesh, and before John knew what he was doing, he’d spun it around to avoid those smug orange eyes boring into him and had it pressed down onto the bed under him.

Beneath him, John could feel the Demon panting, slim chest heaving. There was something sharp in the air, the feel of the weather changing, and John wanted to kill and he wanted to fuck, and the Demon was _grinding_ its ass back up into him.

If John didn’t know better, he would’ve said he was possessed. It would have been a convenient excuse, but the truth was that there _was_ no excuse. The hostility had been mounting between them for years now, and it had to explode sooner or later.

He didn’t even remember how their jeans both ended up yanked down around their ankles. Or how he’d shoved the Demon’s face into the mattress. He wasn’t aware of anything, really, until he was buried in tight heat, and by then it was too late.

And, God, that should have _hurt_ , but the Demon was – well – a _demon_ , and nothing much seemed to faze it. It writhed beneath him, and he had no choice but to thrust in hard and fast, too afraid to stop because then he’d have to _think_ about what he was doing.

“Feels even better, doesn’t it, John?” The Demon was laughing where John’s hand at the back of its neck pressed its face hard into the mattress.

And it did feel good. Too good.

John cried out in release too hard and fast. And it was pleasure, yes, but it was also twisted and wrong, and John couldn’t believe he’d let himself get this _out of control_. Something inside of him was breaking, and the Demon had the nerve to just curl up along the mattress and _grin_ at him.

“Don’t be shy now.” It patted the bed beside it, still hard and long and half naked.

John took a staggering step back and nearly tripped at his pants around his ankles.

The Demon just looked up at him with molten, sultry eyes and wrapped black-nailed fingers around its erection. John watched, paralyzed and mesmerized, as it proceeded to jerk itself off, eyes never leaving his all the while. Lean muscles arched and bowed, gently curved lips parted for deep gasps of oxygen.

John slumped and ended up sitting on the bed after all, as the Demon stroked itself to completion. It was the most perverse thing he’d ever even _heard_ of, let alone seen.

The Demon seemed supremely unperturbed by it all and, after casting him a knowing look over its shoulder, lay down to sleep.

Five minutes into its light snores, John had the entire room salted and reinforced with cat’s eye shells, to boot. The Demon didn’t stir as he grabbed his keys and _ran_.

He was already on the highway when he realized just how much he’d fucked up. God, there was just no going back from this. Something felt _dirty_ inside of him, and he knew that no matter how far he ran, he could never escape it. He could never escape _himself_.

There was only one solution: he had to kill it, now. Escape and go into hiding and then, God, somehow find a way to destroy it before it was too late. Before he was consumed, and it had won.

With shaking fingers, he punched in Dean’s number on his cell phone. It rang five times, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he got voicemail. He didn’t think he was up for an actual two-way conversation right then.

“Dean, something is starting to happen,” John said into the phone, thoughts running a mile a minute. How on earth did you explain to your son that you’d just fucked the thing that killed his mother? Ambiguity always seemed a good route with Dean, though… “I think it’s serious. I need to try to figure out what’s going on. The thing that killed Mom, I…” He gulped. “We’re going to get it, son. I’m—”

“I can never go home.” At that moment, Constance had the bad timing to pop up in the back seat of John’s truck.

He swore under his breath. “Be very careful Dean. We’re all in danger.” And hung up.

“I can’t go home,” Constance repeated, a little petulantly.

John managed to aim to shotgun over his shoulder and filled her full of rock-salt. “Yeah, but I don’t have _time_ for that right now.”

Constance’s form wavered, and she managed to hiss out “How rude!” before she vanished with a scream.

A part of John railed at letting her go. But being predictable was what let the Demon follow him, hunt him down just like he was hunting it. The only way to fight was…well, to turn his back on his job, his family, all the habits he’d ever had and everything he’d ever known.

He was close. He knew it, and the Demon knew it, and that had to be why it had been getting more and more persistent over recent months. John could do this. He could end things _now_ , before it was too late and he lost whatever little of himself he had left.

He had to.

***

Two months into John’s self-imposed exile, he still hadn’t seen the Demon and had gotten his first solid lead on the Colt. In exchange, his boys had nearly gotten themselves killed on half a dozen occasions. It was _almost_ enough to make him doubt his choice.

But then he’d close his eyes and he could _see_ those phosphorescent eyes smiling up at him in victory, like that bastard had already won.

Besides, Dean and Sammy knew what they were doing. He’d made sure of that. That was why all those close calls had been just that: _close_ , but not deadly. The battle he was fighting was a thousand times more intricate, and working with him would just put them in more danger.

“You in construction or something?” The bartender eyed him curiously.

John started in surprise, but when he looked at her he could just _tell_. Over time he’d gotten to the point where he could _recognize_ the Demon, no matter what body it was in and whether it chose to reveal itself or no. And this woman wasn’t it.

He grunted inarticulately, relaxing his shoulders only marginally. Surreptitiously, he covered up the building plans laid out before him across the bar counter. If the woman behind the bar found anything odd about this, she didn’t say anything. He conveyed his desire not to talk all too well, apparently. After he shrugged off a refill, he was left on his own to work in peace.

The storage unit he wanted was on the east side of the building. John bit his lip in anticipation. He’d been tracking that damn Colt for _years_ now, and finally it seemed like he had a shot with the collection that had been sold to the Colorado History Museum back in the ‘60s. The artifacts he wanted weren’t on display, but buried in the bowels of the museum in storage, which made getting to them tricky. On the other hand, that meant that no one would notice them missing for a good, long while.

“You’re dead, you little bitch,” John muttered under his breath, eyeing the room he had to break into and figuring out his plan of attack.

‘Obsessed,’ the Demon had called them. Back then, he’d wanted it dead, yeah, but he hadn’t even _begun_ to learn the meaning of obsession. Now, he knew it was true. There were only two ways to end this: either John would surrender, or he’d kill the thing forever. With a grin on his face that probably came off a bit deranged, he decided which of those options would win out.

***

“I’m worried about you, John.” Missouri blew across the top of the hot mug in her hands. “And your boys are worried about you, too.”

“They don’t know what’s going on,” he insisted, shrugging off her concern.

She gave him that skeptical look like she knew everything and he was just as green as possible. Amazingly, he could _still_ wither under that look. “And you honestly believe they’d be _less_ worried about you if they knew?”

He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. This is between me and it.”

“Yeah, and as long as you believe that, it wins,” she concluded succinctly.

John frowned at that and stared deep into his mug like it held all the answers in the world. Given that Missouri had made the tea, that was a distinct possibility.

“It’s taken over your life,” she continued, kindly but firmly. “It’s _consuming_ you, even if you don’t see it.”

“I was so close,” he insisted. “I thought for sure I had it back in Colorado…” He still hadn’t gotten over his abject despair upon opening up that museum vault and finding it _empty_. Hell, it had been enough for him to break pattern – or, really, _return_ to pattern – and seek out solace with a friendly face.

“You always think you’re so close,” she pointed out. “All these years, you’ve _always_ been ‘so close.’ That’s how the Demon works, how it wins every time. You don’t have to beat it, John; you just have to _let it go_.”

He felt a shiver run through him at those words. “I’m not sure I can do that,” he confessed softly. “I don’t know how…”

Missouri scoffed at him. “Sure, you know. Stick with your family. That’s what’s kept you safe all this time. Remember, they’re what’s important, not that hellspawn.”

It seemed like good advice. Not like there was a chance in Hell that he’d follow it.

Missouri just rolled her eyes at his sheer idiocy and offered him another muffin. Sometimes, that was enough.

***

Some nights he’d wake up and it was like the Demon had been calling out to him in his sleep. He hadn’t seen the thing in over five months now, but everyone who walked by on the streets, everyone who spoke to him, looked at him, smiled his way – all of them had burning eyes in John’s mind.

The latest scuffle in Chicago had only made things worse. Now he _knew_ that the Demon was hunting for him, pulling out all the stops to draw him out once again. Abstractly, he’d known this, of course. But seeing it firsthand just made it all the more _real_.

It hadn’t helped, either, getting to see the boys for a few precious hours and then having to give them up all over again. There was something to be said for Missouri’s advice, after all. After all this was done…

Well, John really couldn’t imagine an ‘after all this was done’ anymore. That was kind of disturbing.

He lay back on the motel bed and stared at the cracked plaster above until his vision was blurring. And then he closed his eyes again, experimentally. Instantly, his mind was assailed with images of hot flesh slapping on hot flesh, the Demon hissing out wicked little promises as the rage flooded through John and spilled out into the willing body beneath him in agony and ecstasy.

His eyes snapped back open, and he tried to bleach his brain all over again.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

It was official.

He was losing his mind.

He was _completely_ sick.

***

It had been a trap for him. John had known that even as he’d said goodbye to Sammy and Dean and drove off to meet the Demon’s spawn’s demands. He’d been prepared for it, too, although not prepared enough, it seemed.

John awoke to find himself tied to a bed in a strange room. Somehow, the fact that he was, y’know, _tied to a bed_ was the least disturbing part of it all. That, at least, was horribly predictable from what he’d come to know of the Demon over the last couple of years.

He coughed pointedly at the closed door, and his mouth was completely dry and cracked. Licking his lips, he called out, “I know you’re here somewhere. Show yourself.”

He expected the door to open, and the Demon – in whatever body it was prancing around in these days – to be standing there, looking at him with that usual tolerant amusement. Either that, or its lackeys would be there, and they’d tell him that Dean and Sammy had been successful, and now they were going to take their revenge out of his hide. But he doubted that last alternative, not because he didn’t have faith in his boys but because he would _know_ if that thing were finally dead. He had to be able to _feel_ it, right? And, if it still was alive, then what had happened back in Salvation?

The answer came, not in the form he suspected, but rather in a thick, black mist.

“Oh no,” he breathed in disbelief, shaking his head vigorously, thrashing against his bonds. “You stay the Hell _away_ from me!”

 _There’s no point in struggling, John._ Its voice was different now, as the cloud of demonic smoke descended around him, filling his lungs even as he fought not to breathe it in. It sounded like the whisper of the wind or the scratch of tree branches against the windowpane, natural but you could’ve _sworn_ there was some meaning there, some intent. Malice buried beneath a seemingly-normal façade. _We are one…_

John felt it enter him then, like it was seeping through every pore in his body, feeling dirty and diseased yet at the same time crackling with power. It felt wonderful and terrible, all at once. Layer by layer, his mind was stripped bare, and in turn his own consciousness brushed against something dark and alien.

 _Me, John._

Their essences were mingling, and the worst part of all was how _good_ it felt. He was surrounded, filled, cocooned within another being after having spent a lifetime alone. It was a horribly intimate experience, not like anything he’d ever known with Mary, yet somehow still on the same par.

 _You don’t have to fight me. We’re meant to be together, you and I. It can just be like this, forever. Just let go…_

And, in one perfectly ill-conceived moment, he _did_ let go, caved in to the darkness and the pain, spilled all his secrets open wide and tasted the Demon’s in turn.

Together, they let out a powerful scream into the night air.

***

“Dad! Dad, don’t you let it kill me!”

Somehow, those were the magic words. John hadn’t been fighting, hadn’t even been entirely aware that he _should_ fight. There was a sort of bliss in surrender. Oblivion. Freedom from all pain and all sorrow. It was all-enveloping and, while John was dimly aware of what was happening around him, it was as though everything was separated from him by a thick fog. Real, yet not.

Dean’s cries of anguish changed all that.

Suddenly, John was awake, mind thrashing like he’d sunk into a deep well and was now flailing madly to reach the surface before he ran out of air.

 _Stop it!_ The Demon hissed, lashing out at him with pain now, rather than pleasure.

“Dad, please…” Dean’s voice was faint, fading, but it was still louder to John than any pain in the world.

He burst back into his body, staggering, tears in his eyes as he fought the screaming Demon within. “Stop,” he begged. “Stop it…”

 _We belong together, John,_ the Demon tried to worm its way back in, and he felt it seize control of his body once again. _There’s no use resisting…_

In many ways, it was like waking up from a dream. John had a crystal-pure moment of clarity right then, when all the Demon’s tricks and seductions were meaningless. All he needed was to hold on for a few more seconds, and…

The bullet tore through his right thigh, a blinding white rush of agony.

He knew even then that it wasn’t enough. He could still feel the thing, writhing inside his mind, filthy and slimy and obscene. “Sammy!” he pleaded. “It’s still alive. It’s inside me. I can feel it. You shoot me. You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!” Sammy blinked at him with tear-stained eyes. “Do it, now!”

It was a fitting end, really. Almost poetic. The two of them would die together. John had all but resigned himself to his fate – a warrior’s death – when Sammy wavered. And, as his pleading got more desperate, Sammy just turned away from him, turned toward Dean, who John just noticed now was pleading for John’s life.

 _You think I won’t make you pay for this?_ The Demon whispered like silk against the inside of his skull. And then, with a scream, it was gone, and John was all alone again, and he didn’t know anything anymore.

***

John sat beside Dean and listened to his heart-monitor beep for a long time. He’d never been plagued by doubt much before, but this time he didn’t have a choice. This time he _had_ to get things right.

He’d been certain of himself, to a fault, so many times in the past.

He’d been certain back after Mary died that, no matter what, he was _going_ to avenge her death.

He’d been certain all those years he trained his boys, dragged them – kicking and screaming, in Sammy’s case – down the same lonely path that had claimed him.

He’d been certain when he’d plotted the Demon’s death in countless motel rooms all across the country.

He’d been certain when he’d fled that motel in Jericho, when he’d chosen to leave Dean and Sam on their own.

He’d been certain in Salvation that the Demon’s death was more important than _anything_ else.

He’d been certain back in that cabin that the only way for all of this to end was for both him and the Demon to go down with one fatal shot.

All those times, he’d been certain. And even he wasn’t quite sure which times he’d been right and which times he’d been wrong. With Dean’s life in the balance, though, there was no room for errors.

Ever since Mary died, he’d lived for vengeance, for the never-ending struggle. The only other thing he’d ever known in all that time that made even a lick of sense was Missouri’s time-worn advice: _Stick by your family._

The steady _beep beep beep_ of the machine beside Dean was more accusing that even his darkest dreams about Mary, even the Demon at its worst.

With a final prayer that he was right this time, John made his choice.

***

The fire from the incantation dimmed instantly to a faded ember, and the basement went dark. John tensed and waited. And still started anyway when the hand landed on his back.

Janitor or no, playing at doing his job or no, John saw right through the Demon’s disguise. It really should know by now not to turn its back on him. “How stupid do you think I am?” He cocked the Colt and aimed straight for the heart.

The Demon turned, smirked, and its eyes switched to orange and gold, striated like the lines of a tiger’s eye. “You really want an honest answer to that?” It teased lightly. The tone of its good-humor was different now, though. John had gotten seriously close to killing it, and that meant no more fun and games.

It also, apparently, meant time for goons.

John ignored the two lesser demons that came in; they weren’t important.

“You conjuring me, John,” it continued to tease. “I’m surprised. I took you for a lot of things, but suicidally reckless wasn’t one of them.”

John wasn’t in a joking mood anymore. He may have tried to kill it, but it had tried to kill _Dean_. And that was unforgivable. “I could always shoot you,” he countered evenly.

“You could always miss,” it shot back with a laugh. “And you’ve only got one try. Don’t you?” It had the audacity to _wink_ at him.

John didn’t even blink. So it was flirting. That’s what evil things did. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference this time.

Even it seemed put off by John’s new determination. “Did you really think you could trap me?”

John just smirked. For all its power, the Demon really wasn’t all that bright, would never _be_ all that bright because it could never understand even the most basic human emotions. “Oh, I don’t want to trap you.” He lowered the gun. “I want to make a deal.”

A pause, and then a smile, like the Demon thought it had just won. “It’s very unseemly, making deals with devils.”

“I will give you the Colt, and the bullet,” he informed it matter-of-factly, “but you’ve got to help Dean. You’ve got to bring him back.”

It tried to goad him. And really it was horribly predictable now, not threatening in the slightest. If John had needed any more confirmation that his convictions were right, that would’ve done it. It went back to its old-fashioned ploy of trying to rile him by threatening Dean. And then by bringing up what Sammy was. And then it smiled like it had caught him up, found a new game to play, and brought up all the secrets John had been keeping from his son.

It didn’t seem to realize that, against his childrens’ lives, _no_ game was worth playing. “Can you bring Dean back?” he demanded firmly. “Yes, or no?”

With something that powerful, the answer was always ultimately ‘yes.’

“So,” John said confidently, “we have a deal.”

“No, John, not yet,” it demanded, smiling like it held all the cards. “You still need to sweeten the pot.”

John had known this was coming from the moment he’d called the bastard. “With what?” he asked out of formality more than anything else.

“Something else I want,” the Demon purred against his ear. “As much as that gun. Maybe _more_.” Its hand snaked up to curl in the hair at the back of his neck.

John didn’t even try to resist when it pulled him in for a kiss.

His soul for his son’s life.

In the end, a trade like that didn’t even require a moment’s thought.

***

 _You surprised me,_ the Demon whispered all around him.

John wasn’t sure where – or what – he was. All he knew was _awareness_. He knew he had to be dead; that was part of their deal. But if this was the afterlife, it was very…indefinite. Not quite like a dream or a thought, but definitely not physical. All he knew was that he _existed_ , and so did the Demon, and they were together.

“Oh?” He didn’t exactly speak because he didn’t really have a mouth, and there wasn’t really air. But it _felt_ like speech to him, although strange and not quite right.

 _I never expected you to give up so easily,_ it replied. _To give yourself so willingly to me…for eternity…_

And John, for the first time, just laughed _hard_. Because he was dead and it was over, and the Demon _still_ didn’t understand.

 _Why are you laughing?_

“Sorry.” But, really, he wasn’t. “But you _really_ don’t get it, do you?”

 _I get that I won and you lost. You are mine, forever._

John was laughing again, which really was a strange experience without a body, like laughter was a _state_ rather than the deep-throated chuckle he was used to. “Not forever,” he corrected. “Just until someone finally ices your ugly ass.”

 _Close enough to forever…_

Which, of course, it wasn’t. Dean and Sam were still out there, together, and while they didn’t have the Colt, John had _faith_ that they’d find another way. In the end, it was either his family or the vendetta. No choice at all, really.

 _You think your boys are going to get me._ The Demon concluded. _You honestly think that they can match me? You couldn’t._

“Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. Although, I guarantee you, eventually _someone_ will,” John corrected him. “But that’s not it at all.”

 _What, then?_ It shouldn’t be possible for a disembodied voice to sound frustrated, yet the Demon still managed to pull it off. John almost felt sorry for it.

“I’m just…not worried.” And that was true. Something deep inside John had relaxed, and it just wasn’t his fight anymore. It was all over.

 _About being trapped in Hell?_ It demanded skeptically.

It didn’t feel like Hell to him, though. “The afterlife is what you make of it. What you deserve,” he retorted.

 _I own you,_ it insisted.

“No,” John finally concluded, feeling radiant and _pure_ inside for the first time in as long as he could remember, “that was back then. Now… Now, family is all that matters.” And, in the end, that was all it took to save him.


End file.
